


My Sin

by cruisedirector



Category: Mission: Impossible (1966)
Genre: Action/Adventure, American Politics, Cold War, Disguise, Enthusiastic Consent, Espionage, F/M, Falling In Love, International Relations, Kissing, Making Love, Male-Female Friendship, Massage, Multiple Orgasms, Name Changes, Nuclear Weapons, Oral Sex, Patriotism, Perfume, Political Expediency, Politics, Romance, Royalty, Secret Identity, Secret Relationship, Secrets, Sex Talk, Spies & Secret Agents, Teaching, Woman on Top, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-11-18
Updated: 2001-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-03 07:10:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruisedirector/pseuds/cruisedirector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story started as a romp and wound up as an attempt to explain why Rollin and Cinnamon left the IMF. It was written between September and November 2001, so inevitably the drama was influenced by the events of September 11 and the world situation in the post-<i>Mission: Impossible</i> era. Many thanks to Robin West for commentary.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Robin West](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Robin+West).



> This story started as a romp and wound up as an attempt to explain why Rollin and Cinnamon left the IMF. It was written between September and November 2001, so inevitably the drama was influenced by the events of September 11 and the world situation in the post-_Mission: Impossible_ era. Many thanks to Robin West for commentary.

_"Good morning, Mr. Phelps. The woman in the photo is Princess Halia of Anchise. Her late husband, Prince Icelus, obtained a full complement of nuclear warheads from an enemy agent. Documents intercepted from the palace show that Halia's ministers are accepting bids for the missiles. Your mission, should you decide to accept it, is to disarm the warheads and prevent Anchise from becoming a player in the proliferation of nuclear weapons in the Middle East. As always, should you or any of your IM Force be caught or killed, the secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions. This recording will self-destruct in five seconds. Good luck, Jim."_


	2. Chapter 2

Insatiable. That was how the mission notes described Princess Halia -- a majestic, powerful beauty who served as regent of Anchise for her young son. The tiny European principality on the Western side of Turkey had a parliament, but its members had been kept in the dark about the secret arsenal hidden beneath the palace. Since the death of Prince Icelus, who got the missiles from an Eastern agent working to destabilize the Mediterranean basin, Halia had reportedly consolidated control in the hands of her ministers and gained allies across the region by courting the wealthy, noble and powerful.

Jim Phelps had informed his team that the IMF needed to disarm those missiles before one of Halia's well-connected Middle Eastern lovers managed to obtain them. Getting an invitation to one of the extravagant parties put on regularly by the widowed princess had been easy; the booming tourist industry of Anchise depended upon wealthy overseas travelers, and Halia had proven only too willing to entertain the rich and powerful. Once the team arrived, Rollin Hand would have the relatively simple task of keeping the princess distracted so Willie Armitage and Barney Collier could bypass security and get to the secret armory. Jim would run interference with the MPs. Cinnamon Carter would draw the attention of jealous suitors, meddling ministers and any troublesome guards.

Rollin wasn't worried about his ability to charm Halia into disappearing with him early in the evening. Nor was he overly concerned with palace protocols, suffering through a formal dinner or any royal functions that might have to be discharged. He was certain he wouldn't have any problem acting the part of a suitable companion for this princess...at least, not until they were alone.

"Does 'insatiable' mean five times in a night, or seven, or what?" he asked Cinnamon as she flipped through jewelry catalogues looking for a suitable gift for the princess. She stared at him, perfect pink lips moistly parted in surprise before they turned up in the most enigmatic smile he'd ever seen. Then she winked, though whether that gesture was meant to convey solidarity or feminine secrecy, he couldn't have said.

Grimacing, Rollin felt unease flutter in his gut. Cinnamon was one hell of a gal -- chic, clever and classy even when she was playing dumb for a mission. If Cinnamon thought Rollin was a schmuck, he probably was. He could sweet-talk most women into doing his bidding, but damned if he could figure out what they wanted sometimes. He did a pretty good job entertaining some of the less, umm, straitlaced ladies they came across in their line of work. But government workers and army secretaries weren't the most sophisticated of lovers, while mobsters' girls were just happy to have a man who didn't make too many demands. The same went for actresses he had known before the IMF, who were thrilled to find a guy willing to pay for dinner and doubly pleased if he didn't turn out to be gay.

Like Cinnamon, though, Princess Halia was a different story. Her husband Prince Icelus had been considered the handsomest man in Europe; he and Halia had shared what was by all accounts a tempestuous, passionate marriage. Then Icelus had been killed in a suspicious heli-skiing accident, leaving their prepubescent son as his heir. As Regent, Halia had forged a coalition of MPs and ministers loyal to herself -- rumor held that she'd slept with every one of them to earn their allegiance. It seemed that few could resist her, but none could satisfy her.

Cinnamon interrupted Rollin's musings with a laugh that might have been wicked or sympathetic -- he couldn't tell. "I'm sure you'll knock the princess out with your usual charm."

"I'm not supposed to knock her out, just flat on her back," he retorted. Privately he thought, just as long as he didn't knock her up. Talk about a global crisis. He wondered whether Jim Phelps worried about things like that, or took it for granted that his agents would deal with all the possibilities.

Right now Phelps had bigger things on his mind. "If we can't disarm the nuclear weapons in Anchise, they could be used against Britain or Israel or even the United States," the team leader declared ominously. "Rollin, your success is key to the entire mission. You must keep the princess from leaving her private rooms or having any communication with the palace staff while Willie and Barney get to the missiles. Afterwards, Halia must never suspect that her new friend had anything to do with the sabotage."

"I understand. I have to be a dream lover for a European princess who already has everything."

While Barney and Willie began to discuss their approach to the hidden bombs, Cinnamon leaned close to Rollin. The scent of her hair wafted to his nostrils, filling him with vague hunger. Lately that happened more and more when Rollin was around Cinnamon -- the more dangerous the mission, the more strongly he felt it. She murmured, "It's nice to see someone else playing the bait for a change."

"I thought you liked wrapping men around your finger," Rollin batted back.

"Sometimes. But it's not as much fun as it used to be." For a moment her expression turned somber. Rollin thought back to a few recent missions where Cinnamon had seemed uneasy -- seducing and humiliating Emil Skarbeck, for instance, when she seemed much more comfortable with her role onstage than putting herself in the path of a woman-hating killer. Still, she maintained a sense of humor about the work -- "doing what comes naturally," as she liked to joke. In that vein, she tossed her head, smiled brightly and added, "Don't worry. It's not hard to pretend to have been raised among royalty."

"If you went to finishing school and grew up riding thoroughbreds," he agreed, glancing pointedly at her. Actually he had no idea where Cinnamon came from, but he assumed from her well-bred demeanor that she had grooming and money in her background.

Cinnamon cocked an eyebrow as if she wasn't sure what Rollin was talking about, but she moved over, placing a hand on his arm. "You've been through all this before. State dinners aren't complicated. Just remember always to pick up the fork farthest from your plate."

"I'm not worried about the forks." The Brooklyn accent he had worked so hard to eradicate came through just enough that the word sounded like -- well, like the "r" was missing and the "o" was a "u." Rollin shook his head at himself. "I've studied table etiquette. And how to dress, and how to dance, and believe it or not, how to converse."

"Then what's wrong?" Her wide blue-green eyes moved with his, like mischievously dancing spotlights that refused to give him any privacy. "Don't tell me you're afraid you won't be able to tempt her someplace private."

"That part of the performance is usually easy," he sighed.

His unconscious choice of words caught Cinnamon's attention. The teasing expression faded from her chiseled features as she regarded him seriously. "Rollin," she ventured, "Are you worried about...performance?"

He hadn't thought his face could get any hotter than it already was, but her query sent a fresh wave of color to his cheeks. "I've never been with a woman I'd describe as insatiable," he quipped. "It's usually the opposite problem. I'm used to actresses and secretaries, not princesses with masseurs and pool boys and half a dozen Saudi princes."

He couldn't believe he was admitting that insecurity to Cinnamon, who had never failed the IMF no matter what sort of man she had been asked to take down for them. He didn't let himself give much thought to how far down she took them -- sometimes when they returned from a mission he wondered, but that always gave him an unpleasant feeling in his stomach so he pushed his curiosity aside. He always thought a woman like Cinnamon deserved much better than the thugs they set her up with, but she seemed committed to the work. And she was incredibly good at it, immersing herself in whatever role they gave her -- nearly as good an actor as he was. It was a real shame their country needed women like her, and he never stopped worrying that something could happen to her, but as long as he did his job right he could try to protect her...

When Cinnamon cocked her head quizzically, he realized his admiring gaze might be taken the wrong way and quickly turned. Her hand still rested on his arm, the faint pressure tingling through several layers of clothing. He shrugged, trying to dismiss his previous comments. "I'm sure it'll work out fine. I'll just slip her the old sleight-of-hand." He winked back at his associate, admiring the way her blonde locks framed her face and her eyes snapped intelligence and wit. Now they were narrowed, evaluating him with a speculative glance.

"Do you need to rehearse?" she asked him, voice low and serious.

Rollin felt his heart leap into his throat. Although he and Cinnamon sometimes flirted on missions, especially when she had to play his lover -- like that time searching for the wire when they got to fool around on his bed for the benefit of spies, one of his favorite IMF memories -- they mostly stayed out of one another's business. He didn't ask how she prepared for her job, she didn't ask how he prepared for his, not unless it was directly relevant to both of their roles. Was she actually offering to -- rehearse? With him? "I, uh, umm..." he stuttered.

"Don't be coy, Rollin. There's too much riding on our success." Her encouraging smile didn't exactly make him feel better -- he couldn't help admiring her confidence, her commitment, and thinking that his desire to give in stemmed from all the wrong impulses. Nonetheless he nodded, and she smiled again with a bit of a devilish look in her eyes. "Jim, Rollin and I are going to go over some things for when he meets the princess." She rose breezily, offering a hand to Rollin while he remained dumbfounded on the couch. He followed her out of the meeting, wondering what in hell he'd gotten himself into.


	3. Chapter 3

Cinnamon took him back to her place. Though he'd been there before on a few occasions when he'd had to pick her up or help with her luggage, Rollin had never visited socially. Still, he'd wondered about what her life was like outside the IMF. She'd been a model, she wasn't married, no children, no regular boyfriend, fantastic fashion sense, not bad with languages, good sense of humor, not afraid of much. Even though as an actor he knew far more about makeup, clothing and role-playing than most men, he had a hard time seeing through Cinnamon's facades, separating the woman from her self-made mystery. Everything about her seemed enigmatically feminine, fueled by unexpected strength and secret tenderness.

Once inside she took his jacket and poured them both drinks, inviting him to sit on her oversized blue sofa with embroidered pillows. They chatted a bit about past missions, their favorite Mozart concertos, and their curiosity about Phelps -- their supervisor who never wore a disguise yet somehow remained below the radar of dozens of international organizations. Rollin stole glances at the books on her shelves, the simple glass vase with an exotic bloom on the windowsill, the handful of photographs scattered on bookshelves. There weren't enough material things for him to draw any new conclusions about her. Her belongings didn't lessen her enigma.

After her glass was empty, Cinnamon sat back with a toss of her head and said, "We should get to work."

When Rollin didn't reply at once, she uncrossed her legs, using the toe of an elegantly tapered shoe to push the one from the other foot clattering to the floor. Her stocking-clad leg hovered in the air between them, and her half-smile held out the promise of joys he'd refused to let himself imagine with her. He'd only ever seen that deliberately seductive look on Cinnamon's face when she was moving in on a mark. Yet now her cheeks were flushed and her eyes gleamed with anticipation, like she was planning on enjoying herself.

"Well, Rollin...seduce me."

In classic suave, debonair secret-agent style, Rollin dropped his glass loudly to the floor. Luckily it was empty and didn't shatter as it hit the edge of the rug, rolling to lie beside Cinnamon's discarded shoe. "Damn," he said before he could help himself. "Sorry..."

He went down on his knee to retrieve the glass at the same moment that she did, banging into her so that she had to hold onto him to steady herself. Though she did her best to give him a disapproving frown, her lips curled with merriment. Rollin started trying to raise her to her feet, then realized the glass remained on the floor, so he let go of her to pick it up just as she shifted her weight toward him. With a shriek Cinnamon lurched into his lap, knocking him back onto his rear end. He managed to keep her from tumbling him to the floor only by planting a hand on her ribcage, his thumb grazing the lower curve of her breast. Cinnamon's hands had stopped her fall by grabbing onto his shoulders. Their faces were inches apart.

Rollin's heart still hadn't recovered from the momentary cardiac arrest her last words had caused. "Sorry," he panted again, feeling his face on fire. Then, since she looked like she might be about to throttle him, before she could announce that this was all a terrible mistake and throw him out, but mostly because he just couldn't resist, he slid his arm around her, drew his back upright and kissed her.

At first she was so unresponsive that he thought she must have concluded he had done that, too, by accident, yet another example of his clumsiness. So he tried again, hoping to impress via the pressure of his lips how magnificent she was and how intimidating that could be. He was ready to groan in frustration when she suddenly melted against him, moving a hand from his shoulder to the back of his head to hold his mouth to hers. Thus did their first real kiss take place on Cinnamon's floor, in one of the least dignified positions Rollin could imagine, but he certainly wasn't going to complain.

Along with disguises, kissing was something Rollin knew he did well. He had been practicing since he was ten years old, with the older girls in the apartment down the hall; they wanted to try out what they saw in the movies, and he never minded pretending to be Clark Gable. Concentrating on taking Cinnamon's breath away, even though she was in the dominant position above him with her hands on his face, he urged her head to angle so her mouth would match his broader one. He teased the sensitive soft rise of her lower lip -- she tasted smoky and sweet like wine, delicious and unforgettable.

She let his tongue stroke her and gave him hers to suck, groaning faintly into his mouth before he pulled away to kiss across her jaw line and around her ear. "That's better," he heard her sigh dreamily before gasping as his lips enveloped the ticklish lobe. "Rollin?"

"Hmm?"

"You're not planning to try to make love to the princess on the floor, are you?"

"I guess not."

Cinnamon put a hand firmly on Rollin's shoulder as she raised herself, then offered him a hand to help him to his feet. She batted her eyes flirtatiously at him as she inclined her head in the direction of her bedroom. Seeing an opportunity to redeem his earlier oafishness, Rollin swept her up in his arms and carried her laughing inside, depositing her gently on the bed, where he proceeded to cover her with light kisses to which she could never quite respond in time. After a few minutes she grabbed him by the front of his shirt to pull him down on top of her, drawing him into a deep, searing embrace that left them both breathing hard.

Cinnamon's eyes had gone nearly black, the pupils wide and inviting. Rollin felt her pelvis shift against his, letting him know she was aware of his arousal. "Do you want me to...demonstrate my technique?" he asked in a husky voice, knowing she would recognize the transparent desire motivating the question. She took so long to respond that he thought he'd pushed too far too fast, but then she nodded slowly, reaching down to pull her skirt over her hips. He slid his hands up to tug away her pantyhose, only to find that she was wearing old-fashioned stockings with garters that left her upper thighs gloriously uncovered.

Rollin hesitated, wondering whether he was supposed to finish undressing her or undress himself, but her low whimper of impatience pushed that thought out of his head. The small triangle of material between her legs was already damp when his fingers brushed across it. Cinnamon spread out to give him better access, leaving a gap between the panties and her thighs. Cautiously he slipped a finger inside, wondering whether a princess would mind getting her silk panties wet, then realizing she would probably just discard them. He tugged down Cinnamon's, getting them caught in the garters until she reached down to help him unfasten them with a throaty laugh.

Then nothing interfered with his access. As she arched against him, he caressed her with his palm, enjoying the feel of the crushed curls in and around his fingers.

"Kiss me," Cinnamon whispered. He rose to his knees and leaned over her, bringing his lips down on hers, opening her mouth with a probing tongue that she met enthusiastically. When she pulled back, however, with her eyelids at half-mast, she said, "It's very nice but that's not what I meant."

Chastened, Rollin put his hands under her hips to slide her further up the bed, lowering his head to kiss her belly as it came into range. Cinnamon was still half-dressed, her breasts hidden from view by her blouse; he determined to do something about that as soon as he could. Now, however, he had a different goal in mind. He pressed his face between her legs, licked slowly along the inside of her thigh and began to tongue the hot juices at her center, enthusiastically demonstrating his skill at the most passionate of kisses.

"Oh, stop!" she shrieked, going rigid, and he practically fell off the bed jumping back. "Don't -- it's too fast -- I'm going to explode if you do that."

He stared at her, damp with sweat and adrenaline and utterly confused. "Isn't that the idea?"

"Well...in theory, but...don't you think we should stop before...you know. I don't think Phelps would approve."

"I wasn't planning to tell him," Rollin said, befuddled. Cinnamon opened and shut her hands like she was exasperated, or maybe just frustrated. "Do they tell you not to when you're on missions?"

"No, of course not. They don't tell me one way or another. They just want the job done." Her breath coming hard, she rose up on her elbows and pushed her skirt back down, hiding herself from him. "Since we have to work together...I think I shouldn't."

This is a job for her, he reminded himself, though it gave him a vague ache in his throat. She was doing him a favor for the good of the IMF; that was all. As if to emphasize the point, she added, "We're supposed to have better self-control." The concern on his face must have comforted her, because some of the tension went out of her body. "You stopped as soon as I told you to stop. When you're with the princess, no matter what, if she tells you to stop, you have to stop, you know that?"

"Of course," he said indignantly. "Was this a test?"

"Not deliberately. Not of you anyway." The tenderness crept back into her eyes. Slowly he bent to press a kiss onto her wrist.

"I don't see how it can be a bad thing if you enjoy yourself, Cin."

"You don't think it makes me a tramp?"

"No! None of the guys ever said that, did they? I'll pop them one..."

"No, they didn't! Please don't go trying to beat up Willie on my account." She smiled, but Rollin's heart was still hammering from an emotion he didn't dare try to name. "Phelps has always...he goes out of his way to tell me how important the work I do is, and how I'm one of the best actresses he's ever seen, but you know what some people think about the morals of actresses and models to begin with."

"Not me."

"But it's supposed to be acting. On missions I can't enjoy myself. If I did, I would feel like a tramp no matter what anyone else said. When that line gets crossed...I don't want to start forgetting who I really am." She gazed at him with sudden sympathy. "I guess it's easier being a woman. They can't really expect you to fake it with the princess."

Rollin stared at her, horrified. "That's awful. I guess I never thought about whether you had to..."

"Oh, don't worry about me. I can usually make it stop if I want to, without compromising the mission. Phelps understands that if I have to, I can call the whole thing off -- I told him that when he came to the company."

"Was it the same way with Briggs?"

"When I started? I don't think Briggs thought about what I might have to do, even though he recruited me to be the honey to catch the flies. He would make sure I was comfortable with the danger from the stunts or the bullets. We never talked about the other hazards of the job. After Fetyukov, when I realized the team might not trust me to keep my head..." Her voice turned cynical. "I've never lost my head. But I've also never called off a mission no matter what I had to do. I can't tell if Phelps respects me for that, or if the reason I'm the one he always calls is because he thinks I never would."

"Sure he respects you. We all do." She lay back again, sighing, her eyes turned away from his. Rollin tried to remember the mission with Fetyukov -- he hadn't been involved directly, but he'd heard enough rumors about Cinnamon and the spy to make him uncomfortable. He had always found it a little too easy to get into the role when he had to play her would-be suitor. He enjoyed watching her flirt with a mark, crook her finger and bring down a would-be dictator or mob boss, but he wondered how much contempt she might have for men who wanted her the way he did. And he didn't think he liked how easily she showed love to men she'd been ordered to destroy, though she had changed a bit over time -- she didn't seem to relish it the way she once had, particularly not since her capture in the Eastern Zone.

How had a girl like Cinnamon gotten mixed up in an outfit like the IMF, anyway? Rollin put a hand on her chin and tilted her face so that she had to look at him. "Cin -- is that your real name?"

Then he thought maybe he'd committed a real transgression, prying into her past, but her eyes lit up. "Sorry to disappoint you but it's Cynthia. Cynthia Carr. Nice to meet you, Mister -- ?"

"Handelbaum," Rollin admitted sheepishly. "Reuben Lewis Handelbaum, but everyone called me Ron. Just a nice Jewish boy from New York."

"I'm from Cincinnati. Probably had something to do with where 'Cinnamon' came from."

Cynthia Carr from Cincinnati. It was hard to wrap his mind around. He wondered what it would have been like had they met outside the IMF -- himself a struggling actor and her a fashion model, probably making more money than he did, too beautiful to approach. He wouldn't have had a chance. Rollin stretched out beside her, lifting her hand once more to his lips. "It's nice to meet you, too," he murmured against her skin, raising goosebumps up her arm.

When Cinnamon turned to meet his eyes, he closed them and kissed her. It was different now that he knew her real name and she knew his, not so much like play-acting for the IMF. And her response was much more intense -- he hadn't realized the extent to which she'd been performing, filing everything away in whatever portion of her brain she reserved for work-related research. Now she was just a woman kissing a man, letting curiosity dictate her actions, and maybe pleasure. Her hands pulled him close, her chest heaved, her pelvis molded itself to his. For the first time he felt as though they were together without any masks on.

He thought of all the different Cinnamons he had seen -- posing as a German rocket scientist to lure an enemy engineer into giving up atomic secrets, playing at being a nun to sneak into the graces of a Latin American dictator, working as personal secretary to a bookie whose alcoholism was probably the only thing that saved her from his foul-breathed advances. And herself, drugged and starving, nearly broken, her life saved only by a bullet-proof raincoat. What a nightmare that had been for the few minutes when he hadn't thought Jim would go back for her and later when they weren't sure they could get her out in time. He had briefly plotted to leave the IMF and rescue her himself if he had to. Probably it would have gotten him caught and killed, yet that might have hurt less than abandoning her...

Rollin's desire diffused out of his groin and lodged somewhere near his heart. He wanted to tell Cin about the feeling, but that would have required tearing his mouth away from hers, so he let it simmer while he concentrated on making her feel good. She didn't resist when he slid his hands under her skirt, so he stroked towards her center, smiling as she twisted to meet his probing fingers. So soft, and so eager, and he could see every nuance of her expression with her face so close to his, hear every sharp intake of breath, feel the building contractions as she rocked towards him with his name on her lips.

This time when he lowered his head and her thighs parted around his face, Rollin avoided her most sensitive spot, licking instead across the velvet folds and around the silken opening. Cinnamon's response was incredibly gratifying -- lots of moaning and gasping and rubbing up and down his face until by the time he slid his tongue inside her, she was wailing his name and tearing at the sheets with her fingernails. When he replaced his tongue with his fingers and concentrated on sucking the bundle of nerves jutting out above, she cried out and spasmed, trapping his head between her legs. It went on and on as she started to relax and he kissed her again, until her shrieks turned to sighs and her muscles went limp.

"Was it okay?" he asked when she'd finally caught her breath.

"Know how you can tell a blonde's not faking?"

Rollin shook his head, not sure what she meant. Cinnamon unbuttoned her blouse so she could pull it open, then unhooked her bra. A dark flush spread all the way down her neck and across her chest, while her nipples had contracted into little red knots.

"You did that," she accused with a slightly embarrassed grin. "Some blondes actually get a rash. I haven't been a real blonde since I was a kid, so I just turn colors." Speechless, he stared in admiration at her beauty. The self-conscious look deepened and her eyes disengaged from his. "Maybe I'm not the best person for you to be doing this with."

Right then Rollin couldn't think of a single other woman he'd ever want to do it with. "Why not?" he demanded.

"Because I was already attracted to you," admitted Cinnamon. "It's not a real test of your seductive powers."

Rollin felt himself grinning like a fool, and didn't care. Still, he had to make sure she wasn't just being nice. "You'd tell me if I was awful, right?"

"I'd tell you what I thought was awful and make you fix it. Which is probably what Princess Insatiable would do, unless she's a real bitch." Cinnamon sat up, pulling her blouse from her shoulders as she looked him over. "Someone's wearing an awful lot of clothing."

"You want to see if I'm fit for a princess?" he joked.

She lifted her chin in challenge, giving him a look of such frank desire that any residual insecurity melted away. "I want to see if you fit inside me."

Until that moment Rollin hadn't been sure she would make love with him. As fast as he could, he stripped off, fumbling awkwardly with his pants and briefs because his erection kept getting stuck in the waistbands. Her appreciative eyes followed him while she tossed aside the rest of her own outfit.

When he stood beside the bed to let his clothes drop to the floor, Cinnamon moved to the edge of the mattress and stroked her arms up his bare legs, kissing his belly button with a teasing look in her eyes. Then her tongue flicked out to draw him into her mouth. Rollin stood rooted to the spot, letting her taste him, shuddering in pleasure, but he knew he had to stop her before she took it any further and he humiliated himself within seconds.

"Not that I don't appreciate it but that's not a good idea if you want me to show off my stamina," he warned as he stepped back, putting his hands on her shoulders to lower her to the bed. She let him lie down between her legs and kiss her neck and breasts, strangely passive for a few minutes, before she suddenly tensed her muscles and flipped them both over, pinning him on his back.

"You could have just asked me to roll," he grinned up at her.

"You know you should always let the woman choose the position the first time, right?" she demanded in a sultry voice. Actually Rollin had always thought the woman expected the man to take the lead, but he nodded gamely. "And you should always ask whether it's safe."

"Safe? Oh. Do I need to bring rubbers to Anchise?" He was afraid she would laugh at him for not assuming a princess would have taken care of that, but Cinnamon wore a serious expression. Then he realized he had a more immediate problem. "Are we safe?" Now she smiled as she assented. "So what's the polite way to ask a princess if she wants to be on top?"

Cinnamon rested her weight against his throbbing groin as she considered the question. He tried to hold still but couldn't help rubbing against her just a little. "You could try saying, 'I live but to serve. How may I attend you?' That ought to work with any woman."

"Sounds awfully subservient."

"A little subservience is rarely a drawback. If she looks annoyed, you can always make suggestions. But she probably has her own ideas." As she spoke, without the slightest change in expression, Cinnamon slid forward, parted her thighs and took him inside her. Feeling her heat surround him, Rollin couldn't hold back the groan that forced its way to his throat. It brought a triumphant smile to her face. Quickly he pulled her legs forward with his hands, then sat up, eliciting a yelp of surprise from her.

"Two can play at this game," he panted, settling her more comfortably in his lap, still pressed within her body. While she tightened her muscles around him, he kissed her throat and stroked her breasts. She urged one of his hands lower until it pressed between them, eliciting little cries from her as she rocked against it. Each thrust brought him deeper inside her.

Rollin was already close to the edge, but that didn't unnerve him as much as the feelings surging through him. For months he'd watched this woman, though now he realized he'd hardly known her at all, had admired her and perhaps secretly dreamed of her but had not dared hope to find himself in her bed, listening as she opened up to him, sharing the pleasure she denied herself with others. It broke his heart yet he was so glad to have her to himself now in the total abandon she showed him, eyelids lowered while her neck arched to fling her hair back from her face, making growling noises in her throat. One of her hands clutched at his chest, the other directed his fingers between her legs. It was almost too much -- the lovemaking itself and the emotions spurring him on.

His salvation was that Cinnamon kept her eyes shut. Rollin knew that if he looked too deeply, he would be lost. He lowered his gaze from her beautiful face and neck to her breasts rising and falling as she slid up and down on him, the nipples hardened to tight pink peaks. Her pale skin gleamed against his darker arms and legs as his eyes continued down the round curve of her belly to the point where they were joined, partly obscured by his own fingers, the dark curls of his hair contrasting with the lighter, neatly trimmed patch crowning her pelvis. Her moisture slicked his erection so that it glowed purple whenever the warmth of her body didn't hide it from view.

Looking at her, Rollin knew why none of the women he'd met in the past couple of years had made much of an impression on him. It was the real reason his heart leaped when the IMF called -- not the excitement of the mission, but the chance to work with her, to be with her. Rollin was an optimist, otherwise he couldn't have dealt with the risks of his job, but passion like this had eluded him. Now he felt complete. He and Cinnamon were so well matched that he barely needed to move to relish the friction of their coupling. He filled her to the mouth of her womb, her muscles squeezing him. "God, Rollin," she sighed, and he answered with a helpless moan.

Cinnamon opened her eyes to smile at him. He gazed at the open joy on her face and could hold nothing back. "I love you, Cin," he choked out, and as he watched her lips part in astonishment, the last of his control dissolved. She held him while he erupted, her legs crossed behind his back and arms around his neck, matching his gasps. But despite the intense pleasure pulsing through him, he knew he had failed -- he hadn't brought her to the pinnacle, he'd let his own feelings overwhelm him. Not that there was a damn thing he could have done about that, not with her.

He was afraid to meet her eyes when Cinnamon leaned back, keeping him inside her as he gradually went limp. But she regarded him fondly, putting a hand on his face. "You're very sweet, but you shouldn't ever say that when you're making love unless you really mean it." Smiling wistfully, she kissed him on the lips. He wanted to tell her that he did mean it with all his heart, but she started moving against him, grinding her pelvis on his, and with a devilish grin she said, "Now finish the job."

Rollin tried not to look at her, lest she should catch his adoring stare on her long, elegant neck and her swaying breasts. Still, her eyes twinkled with amusement. "You're not angry..." he started to ask.

"I'm flattered." Tossing her hair back once more, Cinnamon winked at him. "Any woman with any sense would be. But if you're ever with a lady who gets angry, just tell her all the ways you find her irresistible. And then show her."

Her inner muscles clamped down on him, not entirely comfortably because he was still recovering from his climax and the tip was very sensitive, but he began to move with her, stroking his thumb over the wet ridge above the point where her body met his. When his softening organ started to slip out of her, he quickly replaced it with his fingers. He wasn't sure whether he should put his mouth on her nipple -- it wasn't completely clear to him whether women actually enjoyed that or just enjoyed the attraction their breasts held for men -- but when he lowered his head and she slid her hands into his hair to hold him there, he took that as a cue, using his free hand to roll the other nipple between his finger and thumb. Though his neck started to get stiff from the angle, he suckled and stroked her until she arched and cried out, convulsively clenching his fingers inside her as her own fingers dug into his scalp.

His whole hand was soaking wet by the time Cinnamon relaxed against him, pressing her breasts against his chest and letting her head roll onto his shoulder. He put his arms around her, trying discreetly to bring his fingers within range of his nose. But she looked up, catching him in the act, her suspicious expression turning to delight. "You like the way I smell?"

Rollin blushed furiously. "Uhh -- yeah."

"Then why don't you tell me so?"

"That's not too vulgar for a princess?"

"Not if you do it right."

"I like the way you smell, Cinnamon." She shifted purposefully, and he felt his groin stir.

"Go on."

"I like the way you smell. I like the way you taste." As he spoke, the rest of his body began to respond to the feel of her in his arms -- not just the erotic potential, but the warmth, the softness, the unexpected strength in her thighs and the fragility of her elbows and wrists that made him ache to surrender to anything she might ask. It was a new feeling, and although he wanted to explore it, he also tried to ignore it, because it scared him in a way very few things could. "I even like the way you look," he joked, because it was safer than any of the other things he wanted to say to her -- things he wasn't sure she would let him say. Sure enough, she gave him a heavy-lidded glare.

"Can't you be more specific?"

"You have beautiful eyes." She rolled them and let out a high-pitched laugh, but he continued, "Really, you really do. Sometimes they're blue and sometimes they're green but when you're happy they're full of gold. Your hair is always pretty even when it's a mess, and your whole body moves like there's energy around you." That made her stop shaking her head, but she still had a skeptical expression on her face. "You smell like something a little bit exotic, like jasmine."

"Neroli."

"Okay, neroli. And you taste like..." He fumbled for words, because there really wasn't any good comparison, it would be hard to describe what any woman tasted like, but this one in particular, the earthiness, the tangy sharp fruit-flesh and salty-sweet juices like liquor, "...like cinnamon, the fresh kind that's almost too strong at first but then it fills your whole mouth and you can't remember how anything else could ever have tasted good to you, and you have to have more of it..."

"You're good," she interrupted with a smirk, trying to distract him by moving her hips. But the smile didn't reach her eyes, and when he caught her gaze she bit her lip as if something had upset her. "You don't have to worry about what you can do in bed, Rollin. You could have any woman eating out of your hand just talking like that."

"Cin..."

"No, stop, it's too much. Just kiss m...you should just kiss her, and make her believe you mean all that, like she's the only woman you'd ever want to say that to."

"You're..." Rollin began again. But Cinnamon didn't let him finish, pressing her lips to his as she took his now-full erection into her hand and began expertly to stroke it, like she had to remind him who was supposed to be in charge of this lesson. And he was too overwhelmed by it all to make her stop long enough to tell her about it.


	4. Chapter 4

All night and into the morning they made love, stopping to doze at times but skipping dinner, taking turns showing off their skills and their favorite positions. Rollin had to revise his definition of insatiable, but even after he couldn't make his exhausted body respond to his desire, he found that wandering hands and well-placed kisses would keep Cinnamon gratified. "A man can send a woman to nirvana with one finger if he uses it right," she teased toward morning, when she was getting sore and they'd both already admitted all their secret turn-ons.

Yet they didn't talk about their feelings. Rollin concentrated on loving her the only way he could, which would have to be enough, after that night.

At dawn she woke him to direct him into her bathroom, so she could make certain he had mastered the fine arts of joint bathing and morning-after massage. But first he had to get a drink. He found his glass still on the floor, unbroken, with a faint stain of liquor inside and the imprint of his lips on the rim.

Cinnamon put it back in the cabinet unwashed. "Souvenir," she shrugged. "Is that tacky?"

"I want to take all of last night with me, distilled in a bottle," he admitted. "Cin...what's the name of your perfume?"

She smiled enigmatically and showed him the label. It was "My Sin."

Rollin wondered whether the mission to Anchise would help him keep his country safe or land him squarely on the road to hell.

The journey was alternately pure bliss and raw torture. While Willie dozed and Barney drew maps during the long plane flight, Rollin and Cinnamon talked, first about childhood vacations and places they'd always wanted to visit, then about all the careers they had ever considered and where they might want to live someday and what kind of houses they liked and what they would name their pets if they ever were home long enough to have pets. At the beginning of the flight Jim tried politely to chat with them, but eventually he sat back to rest, glancing at Rollin from time to time with a strange expression on his face. Rollin -- who often talked to Barney about Cadillacs versus foreign cars and which Dodgers fans hated more, the Giants or the Yankees -- rationalized that it wasn't like he and Cinnamon were flirting or anything. Besides, he was supposed to be practicing his moves to chat up the princess.

In Anchise, everything got more complicated. Halia was nothing like Rollin expected; in fact, he had to admit, she was delightful. She reminded him a bit of Eliza Doolittle from 'My Fair Lady.' Maybe no one else at the court could tell that her imperiousness wasn't instinctive, but Rollin was an actor and could see the telltale signs of nervousness in subtle hand gestures and the way her eyes darted about. They hit it off immediately, though he suspected that Halia could see through him, too -- she didn't buy that he had gone to boarding school in England or hunted in Kenya. Still, she seemed charmed by the lies. "You sound too happy to be here, my Yankee friend," she laughed, shaking her head at him.

Apparently she believed he was genuinely besotted with her. Among the backstabbing, jaded, pompous royalty who frequented her court, a romantic commoner must have seemed like a breath of fresh air. At least, he hoped so. He was still light-headed from the long trip, the endless cups of coffee and champagne toasts -- and sitting next to Cinnamon, unable to touch her with all the others present, catching the scent of her in the air, practically falling into a swoon while she charmed customs officials, Anchisan guards, foreign dignitaries and Princess Halia, who believed the beautiful model was a rising movie star named Serena Navarre. Rollin Hand -- or Rowland Hall, for the weekend -- was glad the two women seemed to like each other. It would make his task a little easier.

Cinnamon had gone to work making herself popular among Halia's friends and lovers. She kissed one man, a French playboy, on the dance floor, and another, the Minister of Culture, in an alcove behind the hors d'oeuvres. And those were only the men Rollin knew about. If only he could have stopped trying to watch, he might have been able to relax and enjoy the party, without comparing her expressions to those he had seen on her face the other night, without wondering whether she really enjoyed the way the minister stroked his fingers along her neck and across her cheek. He managed to dance with Cin once when they wound up next to each other as the music started for a waltz, but it was difficult to have to be casual, holding her at arm's length, pretending she was just a distraction from the princess rather than the other way around.

Sensing Halia's gaze on him, Rollin turned away from an exiled duchess trying to monopolize him and gave his royal hostess a brilliant smile. She returned it, winking and inclining her head to indicate that she wanted him beside her. He quickly excused himself from the duchess and began his approach, admiring Halia's sheer layered dress and spectacular jewelry. She didn't wear clothes with the same delight as Cinnamon, who reveled when she got the chance to show off ostentatious fabrics and designs, but then Halia probably had more gowns than she knew what to do with and her shoes alone were worth more than the gross national income of some Third World countries.

Rollin felt overdressed in his well-tailored tuxedo and tails -- like a groom, he thought wryly, and smirked at the image. Halia's expression turned quizzical as he reached her, but she punished him for his distance by putting a hand on the back of his neck and pulling him to her for a quick kiss. Now the duchess wouldn't dare flirt with him. "Your Highness, you take my breath away," Rollin grinned.

She smacked him lightly on the chest to let him know half-assed flattery would get him wherever he wanted to go, turning an oversized pout on him. "I'm tired of being in this stuffy room with all these arrogant people having all these pretentious conversations," she sighed excessively. "Mr. Hall, do you know how boring it is to be a princess? I'm surrounded all the time by playboys and movie stars, everyone giving me gifts to impress me, eating at banquets, sampling the cultural elite...I'm becoming the most spoiled, selfish, shallow, superficial twit in Europe and I can't even enjoy it!"

Throughout her speech Rollin stared at her with his most sympathetic expression, beginning to look suspicious only at the very end, before she burst into giggles. "It sounds terrible," he said deadpan. "Maybe you should do that Audrey Hepburn thing where she pretended to be a commoner." In all likelihood no one at Halia's court would ever have suggested such a thing to her; he knew it was a risk, but it seemed to delight her. And to think he'd just been comparing her to Audrey Hepburn in 'My Fair Lady.' He'd always wanted to act with Audrey Hepburn.

Across the great hall, Rollin could see Cinnamon working the room, distracting the most important players and pitting them against one another. Though her gown was simpler and she wore little jewelry, she was as breathtaking as the princess. He forced his eyes away, back to Halia, whose expression had turned sultry and intimate.

"Why don't we run away together, Rowland?" she whispered, stroking her hand down the side of his face.

"I most fervently hoped you would say that," he batted back. He hoped she read his somber demeanor as passion rather than the unexpected melancholy that assaulted him. Cinnamon had her job, he had his, and his could be a great deal of fun if only he could get himself in the mood.

Slipping her hand into his, Halia led him out of the ballroom, down corridors lined with stunning artwork and priceless tapestries, past what looked like a Roman bath with marble seats surrounded a sunken pool. Room after room of velvet cushions and diaphanous draperies caught Rollin's eye as they traversed another broad hall, turned up a spiral staircase and hid, giggling silently, in an alcove from one of Halia's own guards. Though she whispered that she wanted to be left alone by her too-vigilant attendants, he knew he had to be certain the guards followed them; keeping Halia's personal staff occupied was nearly as important to the mission as distracting the princess herself. Finally they made their way through a magnificently furnished antechamber into a suite dominated by an enormous platform bed.

"How is Mister Hand?" asked Halia, and Rollin almost jumped out of his skin, thinking she had somehow learned his real name. Then she laced her fingers through his, and he realized it was a joke. "Would you give me a massage?" she purred.

"With very great pleasure. Have you got any oil?"

"'Have I got?'" she mimicked lightly, in her inimitable Romanic accent. "I have an entire perfumery at my disposal. Would you prefer myrrh, frangipani, anise, sandalwood, neroli..."

"Neroli?" Rollin asked compulsively.

"Neroli it is." She moved gracefully across the room to an ornately carved vanity, topped by a gold-trimmed mirror. The drawers were filled with hundreds of bottles, perfume and cosmetics from all over the world. As Halia searched for the appropriate vial, Rollin recognized a familiarly shaped flagon.

"That's 'My Sin.'"

Halia turned an incredulous expression on him. "Oh, no. Do not tell me I have snared a 'My Sin' man."

"I -- I was just surprised to see it in your collection." Swallowing, he ordered himself to keep his mind on the mission.

But the princess seemed pleased to see him rattled. She picked out the bottle and opened it, dabbing a bit on her wrist. Then she sniffed it and scrunched her eyes and nose. "You capitalists really must learn something about perfume. Rowland, stop serving me stories about attending the Salzburg Festival and the Paris-Dakar Rally. I have been with European aristocrats all my life and I know you have not. Tell me about your oil wells and your movie star girlfriends."

"You've got me." Rollin grinned, seeing no choice but to play along. "I've hardly been to Europe except on business." That much at least was true -- once in a Strand production of 'Romeo and Juliet' and many times for the IMF. "My family has business interests in Texas, but I'm a New Yorker through and through. We're working on a deal with the sheik -- " He jerked his head in the direction of the door and the party downstairs, guessing she wouldn't care which, " -- but I'm a little out of my league here. I'm used to baseball players and Elizabeth Taylor's crowd, not royalty."

"Do you know Willie Mays?" she asked hopefully. Rollin shook his head no. "Hank Aaron?" He nodded -- he had gotten Hank Aaron's autograph awhile back, which ought to count. "Did you date Elizabeth Taylor?" At that, he smiled enigmatically. "Ah, a gentleman who will not kiss and tell. Is 'My Sin' a popular fragrance in Hollywood? I will have to send some perfume back with Miss Navarre. Perhaps it will improve your country's taste." Halia held up a bottle of oil. "Pure neroli. Very strong. Shall we mix it with palm oil or sweet almond?"

They mixed it with both, and chamomile, and rose and patchouli and something from China whose name Rollin didn't dare try to pronounce, in an antique stone bowl worth more than all the china, goblets, champagne flutes and candy dishes Rollin had owned or broken in his life. He gave Halia a long, slow massage that worshipped every part of her body, dragging it out as long as possible not only to stall for the mission but because even though she was stunningly beautiful, with smooth bronze skin and thick luxuriant hair and wonderfully firm breasts and belly for a woman with a teenage son, Rollin simply couldn't get in the mood for love.

It was odd, because the more she talked, the more he realized that he genuinely liked her. Halia had used all her resources to strengthen her country and keep the would-be-tyrants in her Parliament under control -- she had, she admitted freely, consorted with many ministers and foreign dignitaries to consolidate her power base, to protect her child and his legacy. After being with so many conniving men for the sake of her country, she didn't need Rollin to act suave or genteel -- she wanted to be with a relatively uncomplicated Yankee with no political agenda. When she told him that, as his hands worked the tension from her shoulders and the knots from her neck, Rollin felt guilty.

"You remind me of...someone I work with," he said cautiously. "She does a lot of compromising for our company, and I know it must take a toll on her but she never shows it. She manages to be charming and clever in every situation. I don't know how she does it."

"Let me know if you figure it out," Halia murmured, rolling to look at him. "It's nice to meet someone who understands. I have found myself in a difficult place -- I inherited from my husband a very dangerous situation, and I have no idea whom I can trust to defuse it." Realizing she was talking about the missiles, Rollin sat up straighter. "It is a source of power, but it also could destroy everything, for me and for my country. I must remain in control or terrible things may happen..."

Then abruptly she shook her head and sat up, putting her hands on Rollin's chest. "But you did not come up here to hear me talk politics, and I need a night of escape." Her lids lowered, giving her dark face an irresistibly sultry look -- she no longer reminded him of Audrey Hepburn, she made him think of Cleopatra. "Be with me, Rowland."

Inevitably she moved toward him. Rollin put Cinnamon's face out of his mind, said "Clark Gable" to himself, and kissed her. The princess draped one arm over his shoulder and tilted her head, exposing her neck, which he took to be a hint and began to nibble her elegant throat. Growling softly, Halia wound her fingers through his hair and scraped sharp fingernails across his back. She was wearing next to nothing, having taken most of her clothes off during his massage; Rollin took pride in how easily he could raise goosebumps along her tender skin, and how warmly she responded to his kisses.

But after a few minutes of increasingly heated foreplay, Halia suddenly stopped responding. Breathing hard, she pushed him back to stare at him in accusation. "You are showing off, not enjoying this. Why?"

Grinning, he tried to make light of it. "I've never been with a princess before. I'm nervous..."

"No, that is not true. Nothing about your touch is nervous. You are trying to stay in control. Is this just a conquest to you?"

"Of course not! Can't you tell I really like you?"

The moment the words were out of his mouth, Rollin felt like a complete idiot -- there were a million more erudite things he could have said, about how utterly charming he found her and how devastatingly attractive she was, how her elegance and sophistication intimidated him. Yet it must have been the right thing to say because the anger faded from her eyes. She regarded him curiously.

"Yes, I do believe you really like me. You would not be sitting there with a guilty expression on your face if you did not." Her eyes snapped in sudden fury. "You are working for someone, aren't you. You're a spy! Performing this Gregory Peck goofball routine to charm me, but you are not really interested in me at all, or at least you didn't expect to be. Now that you know I'm not Princess Halia the Nymphomaniac Whore, you feel badly about using me, so you can't make love to me like an empty-headed courtesan, but making love to me is not really why you're here in the first place..."

"Halia, that isn't true! I'm sorry -- I mean, Your Highness -- " Frantically Rollin stalled, groping for excuses. "Can you really see me as a spy? When you've been able to read me like a book all night?" Her expression revealed nothing. His heart pounded. He didn't dare try to pretend to be wildly infatuated with her at this point, but he needed to keep her talking, to keep her with him somehow, before he blew the entire mission for all of them. "If I seem a little distracted, it's because I haven't done this in a long time. You're the first woman in so long who's made me feel..." The look on Halia's face darkened. Rollin scrambled for a cover story. "Do you want me to be honest with you about myself? I'm sure it would bore you."

"It would be a very refreshing change to meet a man who was honest with me about himself," Halia snapped. "And spare me the fable about being the first woman to move you, or whatever you were about to claim. Do men think I am such a fool? My husband's family did not hold this throne for eight hundred years by living in ivory towers. I have been with dozens of the most powerful men in the world, heads of state and aristocrats. If you lie to me..."

Rollin knew instantly the tale he would have to tell. It wasn't the whole truth, but it wasn't really a fib, either. "All right. I won't lie to you. Halia, I find you very exciting and I was flattered when you let me flirt with you, but there's a woman from my past I haven't managed to forget, no matter how badly I want to. I feel like I'm...I don't know, like I'm not really a whole person anymore. It ended tragically, and now every time I meet a woman, I feel like I'm betraying her. I can't help myself. I wish I could stop. I wish I could be the man you deserve. I really do."

The princess sat very still. Whatever she had expected him to tell her, it was not this. "Who was she?"

"Someone I worked with. We both worked for -- my father."

"And she died?"

Rollin hesitated. "No." Stick close to the truth, he told himself. "I wanted her to run away with me but she wouldn't. What we had was against company policy. She decided that we had to end it, because the stakes were so high -- she wouldn't hear of it when I told her I would quit. I would have done anything for her, but she thought I would grow to resent her, and...she left me."

"What was her name?"

"Her name?" He tried frantically to think of something appropriate, knowing Halia was studying him, waiting to catch him in a lie. "Cin-- Cynthia."

The princess nodded suddenly, a rush of understanding on her face. "'My Sin'?"

"Exactly." So much for seduction. Now, Rollin thought grimly, he was going to have to hit Halia over the head with something to knock her out.

But as Halia's eyes disengaged from his, as she lay back on her bed with one arm behind her neck, she looked relaxed, pensive. "I had a true love, once. Before Icelus," she admitted.

"Really? Who was he?"

"He was a poor boy whose family owned a stall in the market. I met him on a shopping expedition with my parents one summer. My mother's maids always picked out the fabric for my dresses, so I would grow bored and wander." Halia smiled dreamily. "He was dark-skinned and very tall. His family could have been from Africa or India, I never learned. He would wait for me in the market and bring me things, beaded necklaces, sometimes the oils they use to make perfume. Myrrh. Neroli." Returning her smile, Rollin stretched out beside her on the bed. "My mother would get angry when she caught me talking to him. When she learned I had been sneaking out to see him, she was furious. She had sacrificed everything to send me to school in Switzerland, to send me to the right balls and parties. She sent me away to Monte Carlo, and by the time I got back, his family's stall was gone. I never learned what happened to him."

"I'm sorry."

"There's a man in the palace now. A staff member -- in an earlier era he would have been called a servant. He reminds me of the boy I loved. He works in the kitchen, and of all the staff he is the only one who has bothered to learn what I really like to eat -- not what I order for feasts, but what I crave late at night when I can't sleep. Sometimes after I have been entertaining some important foreigner, he brings a plate for me -- he knows what I will want, my comfort foods. He is also very tall, and dark-skinned, and he brings me gossip from the kitchen. He makes me laugh."

Halia turned suddenly onto her side, facing Rollin. "I suppose I could have him for the asking. But I would never ask. Do you understand? I could have him tonight, but I would lose him forever that way. I cannot be with him, I cannot make him my lover. I cannot take him to parties at my court. I cannot let the ministers know I have feelings for this man. I must be able to go on forging coalitions, protecting my son's legacy, taking responsibility for my husband's excesses."

"Why?"

"Surely you know Anchise is in a pivotal position, under pressure from the West and the Eastern Bloc, with the Middle East just south of us ready to explode if your government keeps meddling to protect its oil interests while the people suffer. There are some in my government who feel more comfortable forging alliances with the Iron Curtain despite the concentration camps they build for their own citizens. And there are those in Anchise who think only of their own interests, with the wealth and power to be had...I cannot afford to do the same, I cannot forget that I have my finger on the trigger..."

He reached out a sympathetic hand. Squeezing his fingers, she added, "I am glad you told me. I'm sorry not to be the woman of your dreams, but I would rather have a friend than another admirer. Rowland, I cannot leave my job, but if this woman means so much to you, maybe you should leave yours, of your own free will, without her asking, even if she says that is not what she wants for you. You have to be your own man."

If only Phelps had let him get to know her, thought Rollin, perhaps they could have negotiated with this woman instead of sneaking into her palace to disarm her warheads. But the IMF worked for the greater good, and hadn't had time to study the Princess of Anchise in detail. By now Barney and Willie would have reached the secret chamber, destroying Halia's secret weapon, and with it her political clout. Soon enough she would find out, and guess that her visitor had been sent to distract her -- to use her, like all the other men in her life, except the one she couldn't have. Just as he couldn't have Cinnamon...

A loud knock on the door of the chamber made them both jump. Halia's eyes narrowed. "I left specific orders that I did not want to be disturbed!"

"Then let's ignore them," pleaded Rollin with a sinking feeling in his gut. It would have to be something pretty important for her staff to disturb the princess -- something like finding strangers tampering with her nuclear arsenal. She looked tempted, but then she shook her head, rushing to one of her grand closets to pull on another gown.

"I want you to go back to the party," she told him as she dressed. "I will return for you if I can. If not, I will find you tomorrow. Take the back route to the end of the corridor, go down the staircase and turn left to the red carpet. From there you can find your way back to the ballroom." Quickly Halia pulled him to one of her closet doors, but it turned out to access a narrow hallway.

"At least let me come with you," pleaded Rollin. "Maybe I can protect you."

"That's very chivalrous but now is not the time. Later I will find you," she repeated, and urged him through, closing the door firmly behind her.


	5. Chapter 5

Miserably Rollin went down to the celebration where the crowd had thinned considerably. As he expected, Barney and Willie were nowhere to be seen. At first he couldn't see Cinnamon either, but he spotted her in a corner of the room. The Minister of Culture had her pressed to the wall and was putting his hands in places highly inappropriate for such a public venue. Rollin's heart sank, but he could tell from her body language that she was trying to find a way to extricate herself without offending the man. Her hips kept shifting away from his body, and she kept gesturing toward the dance floor.

Striding across the floor, Rollin took a glass of wine from one attendant, gulped it down, handed the glass to another attendant and put a drunken expression on his face. "Cutting in!" he announced cheerfully as he approached Cinnamon and the minister. She shot him an astonished look but didn't resist when he grabbed her hand and tugged her forcefully to him, whirling her around in exaggerated dance steps away from the minister, towards the center of the ballroom.

"What happened?" she hissed into his ear.

"We were interrupted. Someone practically knocked down the princess' door. How long have Barney and Willie been gone?"

"Right on schedule. Phelps is outside smoking with a group of MPs. There's been no sign that anything's amiss -- no security or increased movement." Cinnamon's back felt tense under Rollin's hand. Instinctively he started to knead the knot between her shoulders, then realized how even this minor physical contact was affecting him and how his nose was practically buried in her hair. Quickly he forced himself to let go a bit, to put on a casually drunk expression. The duchess who had been chasing Rollin earlier in the evening gave him a wide smile as he caught her eye; he winked, then twirled Cinnamon around so his back was to the woman, even though the music had stopped.

"Cin, we've got to get down there and find out what's going on. Do you think your minister would give you a tour?"

"Of a top-secret nuclear arsenal? The Minister of Culture is probably one of the ones who don't even know it exists. He's spoken of nothing all evening but music, wine and places he'd like to take me alone. I've tried to circulate among those who might know more, but he has been quite persistent." Inadvertently Rollin squeezed her hand too tightly. "Something about him gives me a bad feeling. He's not playing on the level."

Rollin hoped Cinnamon couldn't sense his relief at what was, after all, a setback -- it would have been to their advantage if the minister could have been persuaded to take her beneath the castle alone. "Then we'll have to go down the same way Willie and Barney did, and we'll have to do it quickly -- before the party ends. Why don't you excuse yourself and go to the ladies' room. I'm going to disguise myself as one of the palace staff. Meet me in fifteen minutes at the pillar by the staircase and make sure you've gotten rid of the minister."

"All right. Have you got a plan for getting below?"

"I'm working on it."

Rollin watched until she had left the room, making sure the minister saw her enter the lounge off the hallway. Then he snuck around toward the kitchen until a tall security guard in formal palace dress passed by alone. Unfortunately Rollin didn't have any injectable drugs -- if he had, he could have knocked the princess out before she answered her door, though that might have created a much more dangerous situation so he was glad it hadn't been an option. Now, however, he had no choice but to slam the unsuspecting man's head into a marble column, hard enough to knock him out. Fortunately the man was close to his own height, though thinner. Rollin switched clothes and gave himself a tan with some face powder he had pocketed in Halia's rooms while she had been mixing fragrant oils for the massage.

When Cinnamon emerged from the ladies' lounge, he was waiting for her. So was the Minister of Culture. Rollin thought this might be a problem, but just then Jim Phelps walked past. "Darling!" Cinnamon exclaimed and threw herself into the arms of their startled team leader. "You're not still avoiding me? I've missed you so!" Playing along, Jim put his arms around her while Cinnamon whispered in his ear, fluttering her eyelashes and looking for all the world as if she were sharing romantic secrets. Quickly Phelphs kissed her behind the ear, murmuring something that the Minister of Culture clearly believed to be a sexual overture; with a harrumph he strode away, muttering about loose Hollywood women.

The moment the minister turned the corner, Cinnamon and Jim stepped apart. Rollin joined them, walking as stiffly as he had seen the palace guards move. "Barney and Willie are overdue and I can't communicate with them," Jim said. "What happened with the princess?"

"We were interrupted," Rollin reiterated. "Security came to the door. She sent me away to protect me and told me not to do anything chivalrous -- I was afraid that if I pressed, she'd realize I had a motive for interfering." Sensing curious eyes on their group, he said in a louder voice, "I am sorry sir, but I cannot show you the tapestries. The palace is not a tourist site. Perhaps you would like to visit the Royal Museum of Anchise in the morning."

"We need to get below," Jim confirmed grimly. "Rollin, as soon as we're past this corridor, we're your prisoners. Follow me, I memorized the map for Barney's incursion. If anyone tries to question us, I'm going to slip and drop this." Jim held up what looked like a perfume atomizer. "It's nerve gas. The only canister we have. We need to make sure we save it for the right moment."

The three of them made their way down the great hallway leading from the ballroom, through several side corridors and into what looked like an older area of the castle. Jim led them past an entrance to ancient catacombs, to a newly-drilled tunnel with a bright metal ladder. Surprisingly, there were no guards; Rollin assumed the usual security contingent must by now be busy interrogating Barney and Willie, which could work to the advantage of the rest of the team. IMF policy stated that if any team members were caught, they were to be considered lost, but neither Rollin nor Jim had ever abandoned a colleague in the middle of a mission and Rollin wasn't about to start now.

"After we disarm the weapons, we're going to need a plan to get the others out," he said.

"First things first." From the bottom of the ladder they emerged into a dark corridor with a locked safe in the wall. Jim produced a collection of keys and electronic devices, and soon had the door open. It led to a large, brightly lit chamber filled with electronic equipment. None of the machinery was familiar to Rollin, but Phelps pulled a wad of sketches out of his jacket pocket. "That's the generator...and that's where they're storing the fuel," he explained in a low voice. "Even with Barney and Willie in custody, I can't imagine they've left this area unguarded."

"Then let me go first," Cinnamon suggested. With a tug she pulled loose a ribbon encircling the top of her full skirt. The bottom half of her outfit seemed to fall away. Rollin gaped, but as the gown and slip puddled around her feet, he saw that the bodice had a tailored skirt sewn beneath. She stepped out of the flowing material, transformed from a socialite into a professional.

Rollin finally turned his attention from Cinnamon, only to find Jim watching him with the same strange expression he had worn on the plane. Mentally he berated himself for paying too much attention to their beautiful colleague. "Ready?" he asked, and walked away from the team leader, escorting his lover toward the deadly equipment. He knocked out one guard on the way, and Cinnamon nearly charmed the two remaining guards into believing she and Jim were experts brought in by Halia to assist with the power supply, but in the end it didn't matter, for Halia and several men came into the room escorting Barney and Willie in custody and all hell broke loose.

Jim broke away and fled, but since he wasn't wearing a mask, he was recognized and taken back into custody before he could escape. Barney dove for the weapons control, but was apprehended before he could disarm the missiles. Willie fought off several guards single-handedly, but couldn't do a thing when faced with two machine guns. Rollin tried to shrink into the background hoping he wouldn't be noticed, but when a few of the men pinned down Cinnamon and Halia approached her furiously, he took an instinctive step toward the two women. The princess glanced up, apparently curious why a household security guard would be protecting the missiles. She almost walked past him, the makeup serving as an adequate disguise, but in contrast to the submissive palace staff, he inadvertently met her eyes...which went wide as she recognized Rollin.

"You," she hissed. "So this has all been a setup. And she..." Halia turned back to Cinnamon, her eyes darkening, and without warning struck the other woman across the face. Cinnamon barely reacted, but Rollin lunged forward without thinking and was quickly grabbed by two of Halia's men. "I should have known. Men from your country are never to be trusted, always meddling in the affairs of every other nation. Or are you both working for my Minister of Culture? You support his plans for nuclear proliferation? Does your own government know what you are doing, or is this a privately funded invasion, to create a profitable war for your oil tycoons?"

"What?" Out of the corner of his eye Rollin exchanged a glance with Cinnamon, who looked just as confused as he felt. "Princess, this is not what it looks like. Miss Navarre and I..." He gestured in Cinnamon's direction as much as he could with the guards holding his arms. "We were just looking for someplace quiet to talk..."

Halia threw back her head and laughed, a rich sound of genuine delight. "Indeed. And you chose to sneak into a top-secret facility after she spent the evening hanging on every foul-breathed word of the Minister's. What a coincidence. My poor dear, did this man not tell you his sad story? He is already in love..."

Abruptly Halia fell silent, inhaling deeply. Rollin thought she must have remembered what she had said to him about wanting to protect her country, but the princess wasn't gasping in betrayal, she was scenting something in the air. Her eyes narrowed to slits. "What is that lovely perfume you are wearing?" she asked in a deadly hiss, turning her glare on Rollin. Cinnamon, too, tried to meet his eyes, but Rollin dared not look away from the princess. "That is 'My Sin,' no?"

"Well...yes, it is." Cinnamon sounded mystified about how her perfume could possibly be relevant. Jim, Willie and Barney were staring, too, not at Cinnamon or the princess, but following the women's gazes to Rollin. "It's very popular among actresses in Hollywood, though of course it's not as elegant as the..."

"So I hear." A slow, wicked smile had begun to cross Halia's face. Abruptly she turned to the guards. "Take these three men and throw them in one of the old dungeon cells. Make sure there are several guards present. I want the Minister of Culture to start the interrogation immediately, and I want the proceedings recorded." As the guards began to shuffle Willie and Barney out, she added, "I will deal with these two myself."

Three guards remained in the room. Rollin thought briefly about his chances for escape -- he'd fought worse odds and won -- but he wouldn't leave Cinnamon to Halia's mercies. And she knew it. "I do not think I will interrogate you just yet," she announced, brushing fingernails like claws across Rollin's chin. "We will start with the woman. If she does not cooperate, feel free to use physical force. Do not worry about disfiguring her. Then neither the Minister nor this man will have any reason to..."

"Your Highness, please, let me explain." Rollin spoke fast, almost babbling. "She doesn't know anything. She only came to Anchise because I asked for her help." Cinnamon stared but did not attempt to contradict him. "There's no reason to implicate her in..."

"I don't care whether she knows anything or not!" Halia's eyes blazed as she stepped forward; even the guards shrank back. "You do not want her tortured and that is reason enough for me to do it. I am fighting to keep my country and my son safe, to stop a war, and you come in, whether for mercenary reasons or political ones it doesn't matter, you and your friends break into the armory trying to steal the weapons, or perhaps you have already made a deal with my minister. Millions of lives could be at stake. You are terrorists. My conscience is clear!"

"You've got it all wrong! We came here to disarm the weapons, not to steal them!" Cinnamon made a furious noise in her throat, but Rollin continued to speak anyway. "We don't work for our country's government. We're a private amnesty group." Halia wanted honesty -- perhaps honesty had been the way to approach her all along, and the IMF had made a mistake. Obviously there was much more going on within the court of Anchise than they had understood, and the Minister of Culture had deceived all of them. "We had a report of a plan to smuggle the missiles out of Anchise -- we were trying to protect your people and the citizens of the world!"

"Then why could you not have come through the front door!" Halia raged. "Why should I believe you now when everything you have told me is a lie?" Breathing hard, she glanced at Cinnamon. "Perhaps not everything. Your lover -- Cynthia, isn't it?" The look of betrayal on Cinnamon's face stabbed into Rollin like a knife before her control reasserted itself. But Halia had seen it, too. "He told me all about you." The princess smiled again, but behind the triumphant glare, Rollin could see regret in her eyes. "He adores you, you know. He is not skilled enough at lying to pretend otherwise." Now Cinnamon looked confused, and the princess melancholy. "But I see that was not enough to stop him from using you the way he tried to use me."

"You're right." Both women's heads jerked up sharply. "I'm a real bastard, Halia. I was using her. But it's not her fault. She was only doing what I asked her to do, to distract people. She doesn't know anything about any of this. Let her go."

"I cannot do that."

"You can. You want to protect people from the missiles without sacrificing your political clout -- here's your chance. Let my friends disarm them. No one outside this room ever has to know. If you need someone to punish for breaking into your palace, let it be me. She's innocent. Don't hold her responsible."

Halia regarded him sadly. "You truly believe in your cause. And I see now that you truly do love her." Rollin glanced from the princess to Cinnamon, who looked as rattled as he'd ever seen her. They were far off the script, the mission was falling apart, and worst, he suspected she finally believed his feelings. Their captor turned to her guards. "I must question the others. Keep these two locked up, but not the dungeon -- put them in the room off the old stone corridor. Make sure there is always one extra guard. I will contact you once I learn the truth from the other intruders."

With an imperious toss of her head, she left the room, leaving Rollin, Cinnamon, and three stone-faced soldiers. Two of them tightened their grips on Rollin's arms while the third took Cinnamon, escorting them roughly past the machinery and into the hallway. They were marched up stairs, into an older section of the palace, to a chilly, windowless bedroom.


	6. Chapter 6

For several minutes after the guards locked the door, Rollin and Cinnamon searched for a secret doorway or weakness in the foundation. At first it seemed they were truly imprisoned, then Rollin discovered a draft coming from behind a stone that held a wall sconce. The mortar holding the rock in place appeared to be different than the ancient material used elsewhere in the room. Several minutes of manipulation with the heel of Cinnamon's shoe budged the brick. After several more minutes, they had pulled enough stones from the weakened mortar to create a hole wide enough for them to crawl through. On the other side was a corridor that smelled damp and musty but appeared to bend around a corner, as if it might lead somewhere.

Rollin wriggled through first, then took Cinnamon's hands to help her, knowing the claustrophobic space must be unnerving to her even if she wouldn't admit it. She had spoken to him mostly in monosyllables since the guards had left them in the room. The light was very dim once they passed into the hidden passage, yet not so dark that he couldn't see her glower.

Finally she spoke. "What in hell did you tell the princess?"

"I'm really sorry about it. I was desperate. I pulled out all the stops and she still wasn't buying that I really wanted her. She started to suspect that maybe I had another agenda, and I needed a cover story, fast. So I told her I was on the rebound. That there had been a woman..."

"And you told her my name, and my perfume!" Cinnamon rose to brush off her clothing, shaking her head incredulously. "She's right -- you did use me. This is my life, not fodder for some mission. I thought we both knew that the other night, that we weren't playacting for the IMF anymore -- I thought that was just us."

"It was just us! Cin -- "

"After all those things I told you, about the parts of myself I have to protect when I'm on a mission -- Rollin, how could you just toss me out like this?" When he started to respond, she held up a hand. They both listened intently for a moment for other voices or sounds, but heard nothing before Cinnamon continued in a lower voice. "I know you were trying to protect me with that little scene back there when we were caught. But when you were alone with her! Why couldn't you have made up some imaginary girlfriend instead of twisting me into something..."

"I didn't twist anything." As he whispered, Rollin crept forward with her, heading for the bend in the corridor from which light seemed to emanate. "You're right, I had no right to use you that way, but I didn't plan it. She asked me about my life because she thought I was lying, and I told her. I told her I was in love with a woman who wore 'My Sin' and how the perfume reminded me of your name. I didn't pick it because it was convenient, I picked it because it was true."

Cinnamon leaned her back against the wall and glared up at him. "You're in love with me," she said sarcastically. Then, seeing his features smoldering in the dimness, her expression closed over. "Rollin, the other night...I know we said we weren't playacting, but it was still just what it was."

"Which means what? It was just sex?" Anger clouded his judgment. "You did it with me like a mark you were taking down?"

"Stop it." Her eyes blazed and for a moment he thought she might slap him, but Cinnamon's self-control was too good for that. Instead she went for the jugular, turning the full fury of her scorn upon him, like in the performance they had rehearsed for Emil Skarbeck. "You don't fall in love with someone from one night. Not unless you're a deluded fool like the marks I take down. Just pull yourself together."

Angrier still, he spoke without thinking. "Why'd you save my glass as a souvenir if it meant nothing to you? You're distracted, too -- you can't just blame me for this mission going wrong. I'm not the one who didn't notice the minister who'd been groping me all night had a hidden agenda." She shifted her eyes away, the way she had when they made love and he tried to tell her how he felt. Suddenly Rollin understood why she was so defensive, and changed his tone. "Cin. Some people would consider a night like we had to be the great love of their lives. But I didn't fall in love with you that night. I was already in love with you. I just hadn't admitted it."

He watched her eyes blink rapidly before she shut down again, pressing her lips together in a tight line. She pushed past him, putting her hand on the stone wall to avoid tripping as they continued down the corridor. Rollin spoke to her back. "It's like you said -- when we prepare for these missions, we're supposed to keep our real selves hidden, in a protected place in case we get caught and tortured. But we can start forgetting who we really are if we hide them for too long. I'm sorry I told Halia, but she asked for the truth and my cover story wasn't holding up. It doesn't make it less real."

"Then you should have told Jim." Cinnamon turned suddenly, stopping him short with her arms between her body and his. "You should have told me."

"I tried to tell you..."

"Do you realize how much danger we're in? The princess knows she can hold me over your head. We should never have been on this mission together. You and I are finished as a team." Whirling away from him, Cinnamon marched toward their destination, not looking back to see whether he was following.

For the first time since their capture, a cold knot of fear formed in Rollin's stomach. The cover story he had told Halia was coming true -- he was about to lose the woman he loved to his job. "Cin," he pleaded. "Halia isn't who they told us she was in the briefing. I got to know her. She's rational -- she wants to get rid of the weapons as much as we do. We can talk our way out of this one..." His voice had risen, and she shushed him. "Listen. I screwed up. I know that. I'll do whatever's necessary, I'll accept whatever punishment the IMF deems appropriate." They had reached the corridor's end, capped by an old wooden door. "But you and me...that's real life. I won't give that up. I don't belong to the IMF and neither do you."

Cinnamon crossed her arms, eyes narrowed to slits. "What are you threatening to do? Quit?"

"If I have to." Rollin's voice didn't quite remain steady as he said the words, but he meant them. He could still hear Halia's voice ringing in his ears, telling him to be his own man. Cinnamon, however, was unimpressed.

"You're not leaving the IMF, Mister Master of Disguise. The work we do is too important. If either of us had to take a break, it would make more sense for it to be me. You don't know how close I came to breaking in the Eastern Zone." That surprised Rollin -- both that she thought she had come so close, and that she would admit it to him. As if she realized what she had just said, she added, "Look, we're both professionals. This is what we do. Neither of us has to take drastic action -- we just need to stop seeing each other."

She pushed gently against the mossy door, which creaked loudly, making her jump back. "Cin." Rollin put his hands on her shoulders and spun her around. "I know the risk, but it's a risk I'm willing to take. I can't believe the work still means that much to you, after what almost happened to you behind the Iron Curtain. And after those things you said about feeling like a tramp."

"What do you expect me to do? Throw it all away for you?" No longer scornful, Cinnamon now sounded simply incredulous. "You have no idea how I ended up here. I haven't told you the first thing about myself -- my father died in jail, did you know that? Do you want to know what I did to get my first modeling job? And why I was the girl the IMF hired out of everyone they considered? You may think you're in love with me but you don't even know me."

"I do know you," interrupted Rollin, understanding her better with every sentence she uttered. "I don't care if your mother was a hooker and your father was a Nazi. I know how brave you are. I know that you're smart, you can carry on a conversation about absolutely anything. You're funny and warm and you like men, you like making love -- you think people are going to judge you for that because we live in a world where people do that, but you don't let it change you. I know you'd do anything for your country and you're kicking yourself because this mission has been a disaster. I think like me you're hooked on the chase, wearing all these different disguises, and you can't imagine living without it." He grabbed her arms, forcing her to look at him. "But I also think deep down you're scared that one day it'll be finished, when we're older and we can't go back to being who we were, and then what? I think we could work it out together..."

"Don't do this to me." Cinnamon twisted away. "Don't do it to yourself, Rollin. There's no place for these feelings here. The princess is going to find us and try to use us against each other and they could get us killed -- not just you and me, but Barney and Jim and Willie too. I'm not willing to risk that."

Suddenly Rollin felt very tired. It was the middle of the night after an overnight flight following the most physically active and emotionally wrenching evening of his life, he was a prisoner along with the woman he loved, who blamed him for their predicament, and there might not be a thing he could do to save her...and it wasn't in the service of the greater good this time, it was because the IMF had sent them into a situation without having the facts straight. Cinnamon was probably right -- Halia would track them, interrogate him and then throw him to the dogs. Maybe that minister would make sure Cinnamon was spared, and she could get away; she was resourceful, she'd find a way. But the mission would fail, and Anchise would keep its warheads, when they might have been instrumental in defusing the situation if they'd simply taken a different approach.

For the first time, Rollin stopped to consider Halia's accusations about the meddling they had done in other countries. Certainly it was within the IMF's jurisdiction to break up downtown gambling rings and stop domestic heroin traffic, but using playacting and false papers to overthrow foreign governments just because one of their leaders was known to have leftist leanings? Destroying industrial complexes that threatened their country's interests, leaving thousands of foreigners unemployed?

The implications suddenly seemed staggering. It was no wonder Halia didn't trust him -- as an American, and moreover as a man who'd come to her with a romantic agenda. Since the death of her husband and maybe before, sex and romance had been tools upon which Halia depended to protect her position and promote her country's interests. There were probably few words a man could say to her that would arouse her suspicions as much as declarations of love.

As for Cinnamon, the situation might be too close for comfort. Rollin knew that she trusted him -- she had put her life in his hands on more than one occasion. Yet he suspected that in general, she didn't trust men very much -- she seemed far too cynical about the ease with which they could be seduced, which Rollin didn't think stemmed purely from confidence in her own allure. He suspected that most of the men who'd professed love to her had turned out to be lying or hopelessly besotted -- that was certainly the case with her IMF targets. And even when they were sincere, she often had to use their feelings against them anyway. No wonder she had gotten so uncharacteristically angry -- in Cinnamon's eyes, Rollin's being in love with her made him a liar or a fool, either one of which made him a deadly problem for the IMF.

"Cin, I'm sorry about everything." She looked at him with amazing calm, as if resignation to their fate had freed her from anxiety about it. "I didn't realize until we got here how different things would be. I know you probably think I'm crazy, or a liar, or an idiot, but no matter what you think, I love you." Rollin saw the frustration in her eyes, and the uncertainty -- she wasn't sure which would do more harm at this point, pushing him away or letting him finish, so he pressed on. "I just want to make sure you understand I mean it, and I'm not delusional and I'm not saying it to try to make you do or say anything. I guess I have to rethink what I'm doing with my life. All I know is that I want you in it."

He held out his hand to her for so long that he thought she was going to wait until he dropped it. They stood in silence in the dim corridor, their futures hanging in the balance. Finally, with a sigh, she clasped his fingers. Coming from her, that constituted a gesture so intimate that he felt overjoyed despite the circumstances.

"I guess there's no use crying over spilled...perfume," she lamented wryly. "Either way, we have to go through that door."

"Then let's go together." With their hands still joined, they pressed the heavy old wood until it groaned and opened wide.


	7. Chapter 7

Rollin and Cinnamon stumbled out into a spacious suite with velvet-covered benches and tapestries hanging from the walls. Inside stood Halia and several of her guards. The princess, who wore a triumphant expression, broke into a smile when she saw them.

"I did lock you in a room with a bed as a courtesy," she teased. Pulling away from Rollin, Cinnamon smoothed her hair and straightened her dress, but he was too dazed to attend to such niceties. "Now you will have to wait until you leave Anchise."

"You mean...you're going to let us go?"

Halia's smile turned feral. "Your friends have been most helpful unmasking my enemies. Can you believe that my own Minister of Culture was involved in a plot to sell nuclear warheads to a Middle Eastern terrorist who shall remain nameless? His interrogation was most enlightening -- he actually believed that Rowland Hall and Serena Navarre were working with me! And that lovely dark man who is so skilled at disarming missiles -- I am sorry I did not meet him at the party before I met you, Mr. Hall. Think of the time we could have saved."

"Your minister was trying to sell the missiles?" Cinnamon asked. "Wouldn't that leave his own country vulnerable?"

"Anchise has no use for nuclear arms." Halia waved her hand dismissively. "Even as defensive weapons, they serve no purpose for us. A single blast could destroy our only city. But to others, those arms are worth a fortune, not just in cash but power and alliances. For some time my minister has not been content to be the cultural leader of a tourist nation whose primary function is to serve as a playground for the elite of other countries. I have no illusions about the relative value of our charity work and high literacy rate. We sit in this fertile zone between the dying imperial might of Europe and the fading glory of what was once Byzantium. Even the most powerful among us watch the East and West manipulate smaller nations all over the globe, and long for control at least within our own sphere."

"But the missiles are disarmed?" Rollin had no desire to debate politics with her, so relieved was he that the primary purpose of their mission -- to safeguard innocent people from those weapons -- might succeed after all. "You know that was all we were working for?"

"I would have to be very naive to believe world peace was all you were working for," Halia scoffed. "You work for the mighty capitalist empire, trying to remake the globe in your own image of it. But do not be afraid, Rowland -- is it Rowland?"

With a glance at Cinnamon, he admitted, "It used to be Ron."

"Ah. Whatever your real names are, I have set you and Miss Navarre free. Photographs of you are circulating to every intelligence agency in the world. Interpol now has your voices on file. Your career as an espionage agent is finished, as is your lover's. Congratulations!"

Still at his side, Cinnamon slumped against Rollin. "Why?" she demanded.

"Need you ask? Because your capitalist foreign policy will backfire. Because when you interfere and meddle, when you keep tin-pot dictators in power based on a misguided fear of global socialism, when you support your country's oil interests in countries where thousands of children are starving, you cannot claim to support liberty and justice for all. One day your secret weapons platforms and germ warfare experiments will return to haunt you with a vengeance. And believe it or not..." Sadly Halia shook her head at Rollin. "I like you. I believed that love story you spun for me about the woman you could not have. I am a prisoner of politics, but you do not have to be." The princess stepped in close. "Find another path. Follow your sin."

With a dramatic sweep of her arm, Halia stalked out of the room, followed by her men. Too late Rollin and Cinnamon rushed forward, but the door had already locked behind the guards. Cinnamon sat down heavily on the nearest bench, which resembled a high-backed double throne.

"What's going to happen to us?"

"You mean today, or after?"

"Our covers are blown. I can't ever model again; I'll be recognized. We can't go to Hollywood unless we change our faces. We can't ever work for any government agency..." Her voice faded out, and she pondered in silence for a moment. Yet when she spoke it was in her usual even manner. "She's destroyed us just as surely as if she'd executed us."

"But we're alive," Rollin added, sitting beside her. He couldn't yet get his brain to assimilate the idea that he had completed his last mission for the IMF, but surprisingly, he felt very little sorrow -- he was still with Cinnamon, that was what mattered. "We didn't fail in Anchise. The missiles are disarmed. And no one's ever going to send you on a mission again where someone can pump you up with drugs and torture you in an airless cage."

Cinnamon didn't bother to hide the shudder that went through her, but she kept her gaze focused. "I survived that."

"You almost didn't. We almost didn't either. Do you know what it would have done to our group if Jim had decided not to go back for you? I would have found a way. Maybe Barney and Willie too. Maybe we've all been working together for too long, Cin, because I don't consider any of them expendable for a mission. Do you?"

"I don't know. Right now I don't know anything. What are we going to do?"

"We could sail around the Cape of Good Hope." He said it on a whim, but she stared at him as if he might mean it. "We could go on one of those digs in Africa where they're trying to find the first man. We could join a touring theater company in the Maritime Provinces. If you really miss being on the front line, maybe the army could use us in Southeast Asia. Or we could step over the line and become gun-runners. We'll have to have new identities, but we're still actors -- we can fool people into thinking we're qualified to do a lot of different things. What do you want to do?"

"Cure cancer," snapped Cinnamon, but her face was pensive. "Become the first woman on the moon. Earn a fortune marketing cosmetics." Tossing her hair, she looked at Rollin. "Climb Mount Everest. Live on the beach and sell pottery. Maybe we could recreate Amelia Earhart's flight around the world -- no, too much publicity. Well, maybe we could find her plane." She paused. "Sailing around the Cape doesn't sound too bad. How would we get the money?"

Before Rollin could answer, the door opened again. In walked Jim, Willie and Barney, though all three averted their eyes when they saw Cinnamon and Rollin sitting together on the loveseat-shaped throne. "Halia had us brought up here," Phelps explained. "She's busy interrogating the Minister of Culture. The guards are going to bring us food while she works out the details, then she claims we're all going to be released. I guess things didn't work out so badly."

"You disarmed the missiles?" Rollin asked Barney, wanting to hear it confirmed from his colleague. Barney smiled and nodded, sinking into one of the low chairs across the room as he launched into a play-by-play of what had happened. The Minister of Culture's assertion that the IMF members must have been working for Halia. Jim's use of the nerve gas to knock out their interrogators, only to discover when they tried to escape that the chamber had false walls. Their recognition of Halia's IMF-style unmasking of the minister by planting her spies in the outer chamber, allowing her to discover which members of her own government had designs on the weapons. Halia's unrepentant explanation of their detention, along with another lecture on the future consequences of superpower meddling in foreign affairs. Jim's conclusion that regardless of her politics, they had been fed false intel on the princess' intentions concerning the missiles. His offer to assist her, all the while disavowing any prior knowledge of espionage in Anchise. Their reluctant agreement to trust each other. The dismantling of the warheads.

A knock on the door interrupted the three men, who were in turn talking over one another trying to chronicle the events for Rollin and Cinnamon. In walked one of the palace staff, carrying a tray of junk food and cigarettes. That was a surprise. Rollin looked into the man's kind face, with dark brows and enigmatic, lively eyes, and felt certain he must be the beloved servant Halia had told him about. But he said nothing as the man deposited the snacks on a table and left.

"Halia is eager to work with our intelligence forces to protect the interests of Anchise," said Jim. "But before she knew what we were working for, she sent data of the two of you to every intelligence network on the globe. Photos, voice prints, possibly fingerprints. The KGB will be able to identify you instantly. So will the PLO. Rollin, Cinnamon, I'm sorry -- I'm afraid you're going to have to lie low. Probably permanently."

"She told us." Cinnamon's voice did not waver as she knocked a cigarette loose from a pack and let Rollin light it for her. "What will happen to us, Jim? I assume people don't just retire from being agents. I'm a model, Rollin's an actor, those are both very visible professions. What do you expect us to do?"

"It's already being taken care of. You'll have to leave Anchise with your current passports -- those of Rowland Hall and Serena Navarre. By the time you land at home, you'll have new identities. I assume you followed orders and you never told your families your cover names, so you should be safe making contact with them. But you're correct, Cinnamon -- your career as a model is finished. So is yours as an actor, Rollin. Of course you'll be compensated for your losses. The IMF will also provide new papers, references, everything you need to start with new jobs."

Jim looked sad. Cinnamon fixed him with a long, piercing stare, waving smoke in the air. "How do we know they won't come looking for us?"

"As long as you keep a low profile, you should be safe from any foreign investigations..."

"No. How do we know the agency won't come looking for us?"

"Cinnamon!"

"Don't 'Cinnamon' me." Emphatically she dropped the cigarette to the stone floor and ground it out with her shoe. "I know what's at stake here and so do you. No matter where we go, there's always the danger we could be caught or killed and compromise the IMF. You know we would never betray you, but we've never even met the secretary. We're not even sure which secretary we work for. I don't want to have to be watching our backs for our own people. I want your word, Jim."

"You've got it. When you're out, you're out. But that works both ways. You can have no contact with anyone you might have encountered through the IMF, inside or outside -- no business opportunities, no freelance work. Once we leave Anchise, I'm going to have to ask that you never make contact with anyone in this room again, including me."

Beside Rollin, Cinnamon inhaled sharply, glancing at Willie and Barney who looked just as stricken as she did. Ignoring the tightness in his own gut, Rollin put an arm protectively around her. "If we're both on the outside, there's no reason we can't see each other, is there?"

Though he raised an eyebrow, Jim fixed a look on Rollin that suggested he'd already known the question was coming. "That's your own business. But be careful. We've all worked together for a long time but we've worn a lot of masks."

"Jim, is our not being able to contact one another an official statement you're supposed to make?" interrupted Barney. "I mean, if Rollin and I were to accidentally run into each other on a golf course..."

"...then the Secretary better never find out about it," finished Jim with half a smile.

Another knock on the door interrupted the discussion. The handsome staff member from the kitchen had returned, carrying their confiscated belongings, including Jim's empty nerve gas flagon and Cinnamon's handbag. "Wait," called Rollin. "Cin, have you got any perfume with you?"

Puzzled, she dug inside the purse until she produced a vial of "My Sin." Rollin took it and rose, gesturing the tall servant to the opposite corner of the room.

"Take this," he said quietly. "Tonight, late, when no one else is around, give it to the princess. Bring it to her personally. Tell her the goofball Yankee said she should take some of her own advice. Tell her not to worry about what her court thinks. Will you remember that?" Though the man looked a bit skeptical, he did not appear to be confused by the instructions. "Please. I won't get a chance to apologize to her personally and her happiness is very important to me. Do you understand?"

The loyal servant of the princess glanced from Rollin to Cinnamon and back. "I understand," he nodded.

"Thank you. From both of us."

The man nodded stiffly once more. "If you are ready, I am to escort you from the palace."


	8. Chapter 8

"What was that about?" asked Cinnamon as they filed from the chamber.

"Repaying a debt. I'll explain later." Jim turned to glance at Rollin with lowered eyebrows, as if to remind him that he had no business meddling any further in IMF affairs. Rollin added, "It's personal. From Halia's perspective, I acted like a real heel. I wanted to send regrets in a way she might appreciate."

They said their farewells in the front hall of the palace. Jim assured Rollin and Cinnamon that once they crossed into Turkey, they would be met by an agent with their new passports, bank accounts, employment papers...new identities. They would cross the Atlantic as different people than they were when they left. Dejectedly Willie said he didn't know how they would pull off missions in the future, but Jim assured them he had someone in mind to replace Rollin as their master of disguise -- some guy from Paris. The big man got teary-eyed as he shook their hands but Barney remained stoic, wishing them both the best of luck.

"If you don't mind my asking...where are you planning to head?" asked Willie.

Rollin and Cinnamon looked at each other. "We were thinking about renting a boat and sailing around the world," she chuckled. "Or joining a repertory theater in...where was it, Manitoba?"

"Halifax," grinned Rollin. "Otherwise, I've always wanted to fly hot air balloons. Maybe open a place in Nevada and give tours of the mountains. And Cinnamon can sell pottery."

"I guess you're going together?" Barney asked cautiously. Everyone's smiles faded as they waited for a response -- Rollin in particular. He was afraid to meet Cinnamon's eyes, but when she spoke she sounded relaxed, even happy. She reached over to squeeze his hand.

"It's a big world out there. I don't want to see it alone. No matter how many interesting men there are." That cracked smiles out of everyone. "Listen, guys, we're really going to miss you."

"Us too." Willie grabbed them both in a bear hug, crushing them together. Then the IMF agents walked away, leaving Rollin and Cinnamon by themselves.

She smiled wryly at him. "Are you sure you're not going to be upset if you find out I was raised by a nightclub dancer and a suspected Communist who might not even have been my real father?"

"Not if you won't be disappointed if my parents were immigrants who worked in sweatshops and never had a nickel for cigarettes. Not very glamorous."

"You may like to live on the edge, but I think you're a good man." Crossing her arms, Cinnamon paced a few steps away. "I haven't always been a good girl. Maybe right now you think that makes me exciting, but it might bother you one day. And I haven't stayed in one place since I left home -- it might bother me one day, too."

"Then we'll deal with that if it happens. Find a way to adjust. Even if we've never talked about this stuff, we've known each other more than three years. We've seen each other at our strung-out worst. I've never met another woman I wanted to be with like I want to be with you, and it's not just since the other night." He stepped towards her, holding out a hand. "You might think I'm an idiot but I wouldn't have been in this line of work if I didn't have faith in happy endings."

"Is that why you wanted to give Princess Halia my perfume?"

"Not me -- it's why I wanted that man to give it to her. We all have our sins. Except you and me -- we're getting a clean slate, aren't we." Irrepressibly, he grinned at her. "Will you still be my sin?"

Cinnamon's lips curled helplessly in response. Slowly her fingers closed around Rollin's. "If you'll give me a hand," she joked.

Together they turned to head toward the palace doors, to face whatever lay outside -- the taxi, then the airport, then the new identities concocted for them by the agency. "I heard about a wonderful hotel in Istanbul," Rollin suggested. "We could go to a Turkish bath, maybe cruise up the Bosphorus. I could find you some neroli oil in the bazaar. We could get to know each other better before we go home."

"Wherever home is."

"Right here." Lifting her fingers to his lips, running his tongue along the knuckles, he watched her eyes grow dark. "Or we could skip the cruise and the bazaar and just stay in the hotel."

Cinnamon gave him a smile full of promise. "It's a start."

The world lay open before them, but all he could think about was getting someplace private with her, sealing the bargain with a kiss.


End file.
